Sore Loser
by A Deed Without a Name
Summary: When it's discovered that the Men of Letters bunker has a gym, Sam is practically chomping at the bit to start making good use of it. Dean is less enthusiastic. Until the exercise routine that he's going through with his brother starts feeling less like actual exercise and a lot like something more...intimate. WARNING: Contains Wincest, rough sex


**This came about because a friend of mine and I were discussing how Sam and Dean train. I mentioned I liked the idea of sparring, because it could so easily turn into sex. **

**And then I had to scribble down something about that. Of course. **

**Not so many warnings this time. Just graphic Wincest (obviously), a couple very light BDSM themes (a little bit of hair pulling, biting, wrestling, stuff like that), and a tiny bit of AU, since this story seems to take place outside of the canon timeline for the SPN 'verse. Not really my usual fare. Considering that it contains exercise instead of overindulgence and muscles instead of soft curves.**

**A thanks to that lovely and talented friend of mine for helping me with the idea, and then being kind enough to read through and tell me what was and wasn't good about the sex.**

* * *

The bunker had a gym.

That wasn't really surprising, considering that the place had pretty much everything else. A library, a shooting range...a kitchen equipped with every single appliance a chef could ever even dream of, much to Dean's near-constant delight. It was a big place, one that he and Sam explored a little more of whenever they had the time, and it seemed like they found something new every single day. Dean was pretty much past the "jumping-up-and-down-because-we-have-a-(insert facility of your choice here)" phase, but when Sam found the gym, you would've thought Christmas had come early.

He called Dean down, greeted him with a big smile and sparkling hazel eyes, and showed him around the giant room while talking nonstop. He barely dimmed at all when Dean pointed out that most of the equipment was outdated and probably dangerous. As he put it, the weights were just fine, and so were the dummy weapons and the wrestling mats.

"That's basically all we need," he explained, having handed a fake katana made of several strips of bamboo to Dean to examine. He had to admit that it looked like it was in pretty good shape for its age. "I mean, we can run outside, the road's perfect for it - "

"Yeah, I'm not doing that," Dean interrupted, handing the katana back. Sam frowned, and opened his mouth again, but Dean started elaborating before he could speak. _"You_ can go out there and freeze your ass off every single morning if you want, but I can think of better ways to slowly kill myself." He offered a bright smile. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Okay...fine. You don't have to go running," he said, putting the katana back in the wooden hooks that held it to the wall. "But this place is absolutely perfect for training. I know we're not hunting nearly as much anymore..." Yeah. Because they had about a million problems right now that could only really be solved by extensive research and not the action that Dean tended to prefer. He would've been climbing the walls if he hadn't had the kitchen, but he wasn't going to let Sam know that. "...so we can't depend on that to keep us sharp. I've been thinking for awhile that we need to start training again."

"Oh, God..." Dean immediately complained, turning away. Sam grabbed his upper arm.

"No, c'mon, it won't be that bad. I promise."

Dean folded his arms over his chest. "You _hated_ it when Dad made us do stuff like this," he pointed out, fixing his younger brother with a steady gaze. Sam let go of him with a sigh.

"Yeah, but...I was a lot littler then. I didn't understand it when we had to spar or practice our aim with - crossbows, or whatever." He shook his head. "Now I get it. And anyway. Dean, it's not gonna kill you, I swear. It'll only be for an hour or two a day." He spread his hands in what looked suspiciously like a placating gesture. "We need this."_  
_

"Maybe you need it," Dean countered. "I don't think I'm gonna forget how to hunt, Sammy."

"No," Sam agreed. "But you're not, like, as _active_ as you used to be. And you don't have the metabolism of a twenty-five-year-old anymore..." His voice had taken on the soft, pleading tone that he used when trying to convince Dean of something necessary. And when trying to talk down a monster with a hostage.

Dean arched an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" he asked, speaking as deliberately as he possibly could. "Sam. Are you calling me _fat?"_

"No! No, of course not," Sam replied hastily, shaking his head and raising his hands higher. "But..." His heavy eyebrows drew together. "You..._have_ been eating a lot more lately. I guess you could've gained - "

"Yeah, I'm leaving." Turning around, Dean threw up his hands and made a beeline for the stairs. He didn't have to stand here and take this abuse. Especially not from Sam, who'd been a little marshmallow when he was twelve and cried every single time that Dad had told them they had to go run laps.

But he showed up at the gym the next morning, at the time Sam had specified for him, wearing a T-shirt, sweatpants, and a scowl. He'd looked at his stomach for a long time last night. It'd seemed just as flat and hard as he was pretty sure it always had, but he didn't want that to change. He figured it couldn't hurt to at least check out whatever regimen Sam had cooked up under that mane of silky chestnut hair, and if he didn't like it, it was a big gym. He was sure that he could find something to keep him busy until their next hunt came along.

Sam positively beamed when he saw him, which made Dean feel a little guilty about the fact that he'd originally planned on just locking himself in his room for this. And it turned out that he'd been telling the truth: it really wasn't that bad. Though it definitely got better when Sam pointed out that he could listen to music if he wanted to, and he bolted upstairs to get his headphones and iPod. A little bit of weight-lifting (to stop their biceps and pectorals from atrophying, Sam said - then laughed when Dean accused him of being a shameless health nut), a little bit of training with fake versions of the types of blades and guns that they tended to use when on the job, a little bit of sparring. That last one was where things started getting interesting.

"So you just want me to come at you?" Dean asked skeptically. He was standing barefoot on the soft mats at one end of the room, a couple yards away from Sam. His brother nodded.

"We haven't done this for awhile, I know," he answered. "Just...try not to actually hurt me. We're only practicing. I won't hurt you, either."

"Hurt," Dean realized without even thinking about it, was a relative term. They'd both walk away with bruises and scrapes, just like they always had when they'd wrestled over pretty much everything as children. Sam was talking about broken bones, heavily-bleeding lacerations, missing handfuls of hair. Things like that. Things they would only expect from enemies - never from each other.

With that in mind, Dean charged, tackling Sam. He wriggled out of his grip, throwing a kick at his face. Dean barely managed to block it with his forearm, muttering out a curse, then scrambled to his feet and punched. Sam caught his wrist with one huge hand, yanking him in and putting him into a headlock that didn't take him long to get out of.

It went on like that for awhile. Dean ignored the throb of deepening bruises, the sting of scrapes and burns picked up from the mat, the lingering breathlessness that came from being hit in the chest and stomach a few too many times. He just focused on getting Sam down to the mat, and then making him stay there. He wasn't quite sure why he wanted to win this thing so badly...but, damn, it felt good when he grabbed Sam's shoulders, threw him to the ground, and straddled his waist, pinning him.

With the way that Sam blinked up at him, Dean figured that he'd expected to come out on top here. Well...of course he had. He was taller, he weighed more (all of it muscle), and he almost certainly thought he was in better shape than Dean. Shifting a little on top of him and feeling pretty proud of himself, Dean was about to whip out his best smirk and comment that all that rabbit food must not make that much of a difference after all, but Sam sort of beat him to it. The smirking thing, at least.

"Okay..." Sam shrugged under Dean's hands. "You pinned me. Now what're you gonna do?"

Dean opened his mouth, but he didn't really have an answer to that. He hadn't thought this far ahead. But, staring down at Sam, that broad chest heaving and his hair spread out around his head in a glossy halo, he suddenly became aware of just how _close_ they were. How close they'd been for the last forty-five minutes or so, play-fighting. They'd probably touched more now than they had, combined, in years. He didn't know why that was so significant to him, but...it was.

Dean swallowed. He could feel Sam's heartbeat, strong and rhythmic, pulsing up through his hands where they were still on his shoulders. And through the other places where their bodies were pressed together, embarrassingly enough.

"Uh. Dean?" Sam's smirk had vanished without Dean noticing, and his voice broke him out of whatever weird trance he'd slipped into. "Normally, I'd let you gloat, or punish me for losing, or whatever it is you're doing. But you're kinda sitting on the bottoms of my lungs..."

"Oh. Right. Sorry." Dean hurriedly dragged himself off of Sam's solid torso, feeling a little flicker of disappointment as soon as they were separated. He crushed it, then immediately set to work convincing himself that he really hadn't felt anything at all. He forced himself to his feet, making his overworked muscles protest, stepped over his little brother, and headed for the stairs. "I'm gonna go shower."

"You're not gonna help me up?" Sam called. There was a rustling and a squeak of rubber; he must've pushed himself up onto his elbows in order to watch him go.

"Nope." Dean couldn't touch him again. Not right now. If he laid a hand on that sweat-slick tan skin, then he was afraid that something would happen. He wasn't sure what. Just...something.

"That's poor sportsmanship," Sam pointed out as he shoved open the door. There was some unidentifiable note in his voice, but Dean didn't take the time to try and figure it out. "Jerk."

Dean couldn't muster the strength to call him a bitch. Even knowing Sam would be unconsciously waiting for it for the rest of the day - that casual affirmation of their brotherly bond.

* * *

Dean woke up the next morning determined that it was going to be a normal day. The most normal day ever. He was going to do research, he was going to cook, he was going to ignore the slight ache in muscles he hadn't used for awhile until yesterday, and he definitely wasn't going to feel funny about Sam. He'd pretty much raised him. They had no secrets when it came to each other - at the moment, anyway, but that was more than good enough for Dean. There shouldn't be anything "funny" there at all. And there wasn't. Maybe his blood sugar had been off yesterday.

He felt he did pretty good with the whole "normal" thing. He even remembered to set the universe right, deadpanning, "Made 'em just the way you like 'em - no complaining, bitch," as he dropped a plate of scrambled eggs in front of Sam. Sam looked up from the book he'd been poring over and grinned, and Dean's heart stuttered in his chest. Not much, but enough for him to notice it.

Yep. Normal, normal, normal.

He ignored that, and headed down to the gym at the same time as yesterday. Sam was already stretching. In shorts. Dean caught himself looking at his long, well-muscled legs for a lot longer than he should've, and glanced away hastily. Everything seemed to go okay after that, though, fortunately enough. Weight-lifting...weapons drills. He didn't touch Sam, Sam didn't touch him, and their usual flow of banter and insults came easily. But, of course, sparring rolled around way too fast.

Dean hesitated before stepping onto the mat. It looked like Sam had scrubbed it yesterday after they'd finished, which totally fit into his freakish personality. It was actually a gesture Dean would've silently appreciated, under different conditions. Right now, though, dirt and stale little brother sweat weren't what he was worried about.

"Maybe we should just skip this today," he suggested, hoping that he didn't sound nearly as uneasy as he felt.

Sam, already standing on the mat with his legs shoulder-width apart and his arms folded over his chest, smirked a little. "What's wrong? Was I too rough on you yesterday?" The smirk widened into a grin. "Or are you really just that out of shape?"

"Hey, I _beat_ you yesterday," Dean shot back, choosing to ignore the second question.

"Yeah, and then you were a dick about it," Sam said reasonably. "If you're gonna do that again, then I agree. Let's skip this for today."

Well, Dean wouldn't exactly call that a victory, considering he'd achieved it by virtue of what Sam thought was his dickishness. But he could live with it. He'd turned around and gotten halfway to the stairs when his younger brother called out, "You know what?"

"What?" Dean reluctantly glanced over his shoulder. Sam was sitting down now, legs folded and the heels of his hands planted behind him to support his weight. There was a smug expression on his face that Dean, courtesy of his "big brother" instincts, immediately started itching to wipe off.

"I think you're just scared," Sam said, shrugging. "That yesterday wasn't anything but a fluke for you, so I'm gonna kick your ass this time around."

Dean couldn't stop himself from straightening up and turning to face Sam, glaring at him. He shook his head and laughed, but the sound came out forced and angry.

"You're nuts," he said, speaking as clearly as he could. He was heading for the stairs again when Sam called, "Then come prove it."

That somehow coaxed him back to the edge of the mat. He spread his hands, shaking his head for a second time. "What are you, twelve?" Sam climbed to his feet and gestured him forward.

"C'mon," he encouraged. "It's not gonna kill you to be completely crushed by me."

Considering their size difference, it might, but Dean didn't point that out. Instead, he lunged at Sam, took him to the ground, and managed to sit on top of him for a full four seconds before he was bucked off and headbutted in the stomach. There was nothing about that that made him aware of Sam's heat or his body, or started his heart beating funny. He was just beginning to think that he might get through this without anything weird happening at all - and then Sam kicked his legs out from under him and dove on top of his torso when his chest hit the mat.

Dean squirmed under over two hundred pounds of muscle, clawing at the sweat-damp rubber in an effort to gain even the tiniest bit of leverage. After snarling, mewling, and writhing like a caged werewolf for about ten minutes, he went limp, exhausted. His chest heaved. At least he could breathe okay; Sam was on the small of his back.

"Okay," he wheezed, twisting his head so that his chin rested on the mat. He closed his eyes and swallowed, wincing as he felt his Adam's apple bob against the firm rubber of it. "You got me. Happy?"

"Not really," Sam admitted. His huge hands were spread over Dean's shoulder blades, and he felt him shift a little. His knees dug into his ribcage. "I'm sorry, but, uh...you were kinda pathetic."

"Screw you," Dean grunted. He planted his palms and tried to push himself up, but six feet and four inches of bookish, morally-conscious monster hunter weighed a ton. "Okay, Sammy. Had your fun. Let me up now."

"In a minute. You sat on me for a pretty long time yesterday." Sam's weight shifted forward onto his hands a little as he leaned forward. Soft, heavy hair brushed against the back of Dean's neck...and sparked something in him. Warm breath ruffled through his brush cut, and he bit his tongue so hard he felt its surface split right open.

"Sam. Seriously." He squeezed his eyes shut. "Let me up. Right now."

"Am I...hurting you?" Sam's voice was soft, concerned. God, that voice. The cadence of it. Dean shivered. It got a little more intense when a hand gripped his shoulder and gently squeezed.

"No, no you aren't, but - "

"Then you'll live," Sam predicted. The hand returned to Dean's shoulder blade. "Wait it out. You lost, fair and square. This is a good thing you came up with."

Sam's every tiny movement sent _something_ thrilling through Dean. He was so perfectly solid on top of him, and every spot where they were touching tingled deliciously. He thought about his chest slamming into Sam's as he tried to take him down, Sam's hands on his hips and ass when he drove his skull into his stomach, their legs tangled together after they'd gone for each other's throats simultaneously. To his horror, he felt his crotch beginning to throb with arousal. He was about thirty seconds away from arching up against Sam and purring, desperate for more attention.

No, no, no. This was so freaking wrong. He shouldn't be turned by his brother's touch, and he shouldn't want more from him. He shouldn't want to wriggle and twist until he had Sam on the bottom - because, on some level, he felt like that was how it was supposed to be.

"S-Sam..." Dean swore at himself, mentally, for stuttering and very nearly whining as he spoke. When was the last time he had stuttered? Before entering middle school, definitely. "Get off me." His voice was ragged. His cock was stiffening, pressing against the rubber of the mat, and he wanted to get up and sprint for the door before it was too obvious to hide.

And Sam moved against him again. The combined pressure of groin-hips-ass against the small of his back, rubbing ever so slightly, sent blood pounding straight to the area between Dean's legs. He very nearly moaned. Part of it was pleasure that he really, _really _shouldn't've been feeling, and part of it was resignation to the fact that it was a little too late for him to walk around without Sam noticing that he was hard as a rock.

"All right, all right, sorry..." Sam swung his leg over him, getting off, then rose to his feet. Dean kept his eyes closed. Just like yesterday, an almost-painful pang of disappointment went through him at the separation. "I didn't mean to freak you out so much."

"'S okay," Dean grunted, turning his head so that his face was buried in the mat. That backfired a little. The smell of old rubber was strong, but...so was the wholesome, unmistakable scent of Sam. He stayed where he was, dick pulsing with pure need.

Sam waited for a few seconds, standing above him. Dean could practically see his eyes flicking down his body, studying him confusedly, and his thick hair tumbling to one side as he cocked his head in concern. He should really tie it back when they were doing things like this, but maybe it wasn't quite long enough for that. And it wasn't like he had to worry; Dean would never pull it.

"Aren't you gonna get up?" he asked finally. That weird note had come back into his voice, but it probably didn't mean anything.

"Think I tweaked my back or something," Dean answered, voice muffled by the mat. Then, because his "Sam-is-about-to-apologize-profusely" sense _ding_ed, he quickly added, "Wasn't your fault. Just...old wounds, acting up. If I lay here for a few minutes, I'll be fine."

There was a pause, and then Sam uncertainly started, "D'you want me to - "

_"No."_ Realizing he'd snapped at him, Dean did his best to tone it down. "I mean...nah. I can manage. Go shower, Sammy. I'll get lunch started in a little bit."

"I think it'd be a better idea if I went out and grabbed something," Sam pointed out. "You should rest." Dean heard bare footsteps began to pad away from him, but they stopped before he could breathe a sigh of relief. "I'm gonna make an ice pack for you, okay? Which you're going to use. And if you're not back upstairs in ten minutes, I'm coming down, and carrying you. I don't care how much you bitch and moan about it, either."

Dean growled under his breath, but that was the only reply he offered. And, after a chuckle, Sam finally, _finally _left.

Dean immediately scrambled to his feet, face red, then bolted upstairs and holed himself up in his room until the problem had been thoroughly taken care of. Even then, he couldn't look Sam in the eye when he showed up to hand over a plastic baggie full of ice. He took it, still, though he didn't plan on using it.

Somehow...he didn't think icing his problem area would help.

* * *

He had to be starved for attention or human contact or whatever. So starved, in fact, that neither his body not his unconscious mind could tell the difference between his brother's hands on him and someone else's. Someone he wasn't related to. That was the only explanation.

He hadn't gotten laid in...Jesus, he couldn't even remember. It'd been that long. He'd just been too busy with everything else that kept coming up to go bar-hopping, hunting for a girl (or, if he was really desperate, and sure that no one would see him, a guy) who was willing to help him relieve some stress. So, logically, if he just managed to bed someone, he'd be able to wrestle Sam to the ground and sit on top of him without having to jerk off directly after.

There were a couple towns within easy driving distance of the bunker. All had bars, and clubs. Dean was thirty-four, but that wasn't that old, and he could pass for six or seven years younger on a good night. And he was attractive. Sam had mother-henned him all last night, unfortunately, since he'd made up that excuse about his back. But he should be able to make it out this evening.

After he met Sam for their stupid workout session.

Dean could have blown it off so easily. If he'd just told him that his back was still sore, then he would have insisted that he take it easy instead of doing anything that resembled exercise. Sam's paternal instincts went into total overdrive whenever Dean was injured or sick, and he would've resented that if he didn't do the exact same thing with him. Only worse.

But he couldn't play that card. If Sam thought he was still hurt, then he'd literally handcuff him to the bed to keep him from going out and possibly making it worse. And having his long-haired, smooth-skinned, muscle-bound younger brother slap cuffs on him while he was stretched out on a mattress wouldn't be a good thing for him right now.

Dean pulled on sweats and a T-shirt, and went down to the gym.

"If it still hurts, then you don't have to do this." That was how Sam greeted him, expression unreadable and arms folded loosely across the clean shapes of his pecs. His hair was damp, like he'd just barely washed it, and slicked back a little so it wouldn't fall into his eyes.

Dean shook his head, and offered a smile that he hoped didn't look too strained. "Nope. I feel just fine today - looks like a good night's sleep was all I needed." He let the smile stretch into a grin. "I'm telling you, man, memory foam...it's a miracle of science."

"Uh...yeah." San seemed eager to get past that subject. "Still. Don't strain yourself. You're not gonna be any good on a hunt if whatever's wrong with your back gets worse."

"Got it, House." Dean headed for one of the racks of smaller weights. Just so long as he and Sam didn't touch all that often - or at all, preferably - he could get through this.

It wasn't that he didn't love Sam. Dean reflected on that as he went through an adjusted set of exercises and drills, since his brother was being oddly silent and wasn't providing a distraction. No, it was pretty much exactly the opposite of that. He loved Sam so much it hurt, and had for just as long as he could remember. He off-set him perfectly, but liked just enough of the same things that he wasn't annoying, and had a laugh that Dean went above and beyond the call of duty to hear at least once a day. Talking with Sam was easy and comfortable, just like hunting with him, and falling down on the couch or into Baby's seats to spend a few hours drinking or watching TV. He guessed that it was a pretty good thing that they got along so well, since Sam was likely the person he was going to spend the rest of his life with.

And of course he'd die for him. Kill for him. Anyone or anything that laid a hand on Dean's precious Sammy and left a mark could expect a brutal and swift comeuppance. And anyone or anything that tried to separate them without their permission wouldn't last long, either. But just because Dean couldn't live without him didn't mean that their relationship had ever been remotely sexual. _Maybe _he'd had a couple weird dreams every once in awhile. Especially as a horny teenager, when Sam had just barely been coming into his adult size. Maybe. But that was normal (right?), with how physically and emotionally close they'd been forced to be, and nothing like that had happened in a long time.

They were brothers, and Sam was straight as an arrow, and he knew both of those things. This just had to be because he'd been in a serious dry spell for a long time now. He'd fix it tonight, and then everything would be just fine.

Dean had worked himself up into a pretty high state of optimism by the time Sam put down the unloaded pistol he'd been fieldstripping and brought up sparring.

"I'm positive that's what set your back off yesterday," he said. "I know you said it wasn't anything I did, but still."

Dean recognized that he'd been given a way out. There wouldn't have to be any touching today, and he could still leave the bunker later, because he wasn't actually hurting. Just preventing hurt. By the grace of whatever deity had currently gotten tired of hating him, he could get on with his life without a single hiccup.

So, naturally, he did the stupid thing, instead of the easy one.

"So, what, you don't wanna do it today?" he asked, raising his eyebrows and folding his arms. "Sammy, how many times am I gonna have to tell you that I'm okay? Look." He bent fluidly, touching his palms to the part of his legs just above his ankles, then stood up again and put his hands on his hips. "Doesn't hurt at all."

Why the hell was he trying so hard for this when it was the last thing he wanted?

"Okay," Sam relented, but he still seemed unconvinced. "Let's go, then."

Dean tried, this time. Really tried, to focus just on fighting and not on Sam's hard curves or Sam's incredible warmth or Sam's scent. He pushed himself into the pain of being struck, the strain of staying upright, the humiliation of being thrown down. And, of course, he'd expected to be gone easy on, since his back was "hurt;" but when he slammed Sam down to the mat after about fifteen minutes of wriggling around each other like a pair of mating vetalas, he couldn't help feeling like it was something he'd been allowed to do.

His chest was pressed against Sam's, and he could feel his heart hammering through their ribs. Their noses were inches apart. Sam's eyes were wide and clear. Dean wasn't completely sure he'd let him win just so he wouldn't hurt himself.

"Okay." Sam's voice was low and husky as he began to repeat his words from the first day. He stared up at Dean, lips curling in a slight smirk. "You pinned me. Now what're you gonna do?"

It took Dean a couple of seconds to realize that he was actually waiting for his answer. There was something undeniably vulnerable in his face, something childish and uncertain. Even though he had no doubt he could feel Dean's cock beginning to stir against his washboard abs.

He could have defused the situation (and the definitely-sexual tension that was crackling in the air) and number of ways. He could have snorted and rolled off. He could have drawled, "Take my sweet damn time, Sammy," and copied what Sam had done yesterday. Hell, he could've given him a wet willy. That would have just about obliterated the mood.

Dean was thoroughly weighing the pros and cons of all of those. Honestly, he was. But, while he devoted his attention to that, his mouth somehow just happened to find its way to Sam's.

Sam welcomed him without saying a word, lips parting slightly under Dean's own as he kissed slowly, cautiously. Almost shyly. That wasn't his usual M.O. - not at all - but he felt like it was needed for this first time. He had to make sure that everything he was doing was allowed.

He'd barely chanced putting the very tip of his tongue into the warm, moist hollow of Sam's mouth before he pulled back, opened his eyes, and looked down at him.

"That okay?" he asked softly, his voice rasping in his throat. Sam blinked, then grinned, huge hands rising from the mat to rest on Dean's torso.

_"Very_ okay," he said, with a soft, breathy laugh. "I...yes. Finally."

Spreading a hand in the dip that was the small of Dean's back, he used the other to cup the spot where his head met his neck, pulling him down for a second kiss. That one was soft and quick, almost a peck, and then they both pulled back to look at each other. Then Sam's hands tightened on Dean, and Dean grabbed either side of Sam's head, and they met so hard that Dean's teeth honestly ached for a second.

He hauled Sam up, as they gasped and sucked and mouthed at each other, so that he was basically sitting in his younger brother's lap with his legs wrapped around his hips. It was a position that worked, since Dean was the smaller of the two. He could feel Sam's half-mast (and growing) erection pressing into him, and couldn't help wondering if he'd been walking away from these sessions hard, too, for the past couple of days.

But there wasn't a whole lot of time for wondering. Sam was pulling his shirt off now, fingertips digging into his torso hard enough that there'd be black bruises later tonight, and Dean was still kissing. He nipped at his plump, perfect lips, which were already swollen from the sheer ferocity of what they'd been doing up until this point. And he gasped when Sam threw his T-shirt aside and shoved him down with a growl. He swore his ribs rattled where they anchored to his spine and sternum. Sam's mouth left his, brushing down his neck and collarbones before he reached his bare chest. Dean grabbed his head, burying his fingers in the thick, warm waves of his hair, as he felt teeth and tongue and lips roving over the landscape of pale, freckled skin, leaving marks that he was immediately proud to have.

His neck arched when Sam started paying special attention to his tattoo, driving his head back into the mat. And he couldn't keep himself from crying out a little when he reached one of his nipples. Those had always been fairly-sensitive parts of him, for whatever reason, and having Sam sucking at and rolling the dusky skin between his teeth was enough to make precome well on the tip of his cock. His blunt fingernails scraped at Sam's scalp as he all but yanked on his hair. His hips rose involuntarily off of the mat.

When Sam pulled back a little, as if to survey just what it was he'd had his mouth all over, some childish part of Dean hoped he liked what he saw. It wasn't like Sam had never seen him shirtless before - they lived together, they were bound to catch each other wandering around in nothing more than a towel or boxers every once in awhile. But Sam had never seen him shirtless while he was spread out underneath him, twitching and moaning and pulling his hair. He was well-muscled, which would hopefully count in his favor, and pretty much completely hairless except for a slim, neat treasure trail. He wasn't sure if that was something Sam was into, though.

Apparently, it was. He was back in seconds, laving the area between his pecs thoroughly with his tongue before he started biting, and Dean couldn't hold back a sound that was very nearly a purr. It cut off abruptly when Sam reached up, grabbed one of his wrists, and slammed his arm to the mat, holding him down.

Nope. Not okay. Not right.

Dean had flipped them over in no time flat, one hand still buried in Sam's hair and the other planted firmly on his shoulder. There were a few dark brown strands still wound around his fingers; Sam must not have cared too much about the fact that he'd had a really good grip on those flowing locks.

Sam grinned up at him, eyes so bright that Dean would have thought there was angelic grace behind them. If he hadn't known better, of course. "Really think you can stay on top?"

"Oh, hell, yes, I do."

It wasn't easy to strip Sam. He kept squirming around, bucking up, pulling Dean down into fast-paced wrestling matches that always ended with furious kissing and rough groping. But Dean finally got him naked (and kept him underneath himself the whole time), somehow managing to lose his own sweats and boxers along the way.

Sam, surprisingly, wasn't all that much bigger than him when fully erect. And he had a pretty cock, with a proportional, impressive length under a blushing head that was already slick and shiny with precome. Dean...well, he sort of wanted that in his mouth, which was sort of an unfamiliar feeling for him. He was a dom, through and through, and didn't do blowjobs. However, he was more than willing to make an exception for Sam...later, though. He had something else in mind for right now.

Sam's legs were spread. Dean was kneeling between them, hands on his hips to keep his lower half securely pinned to the mat. Leaving one side unrestrained, he teasingly reached under his balls, probing for his entrance. He'd expected the puckered skin to be hot and dry under his fingertips. But, no, it was wet.

"What the hell?" he muttered. Sam, propped up on his elbows, raised both eyebrows.

"I'm not stupid, Dean," he pointed out. Dean had known that since Sam was about three, but he didn't say anything. "I figured that...y'know, today would be the day, just based on how you've been looking at me lately. How you've been acting. I lubed up before I came down here, and worked myself open." He took advantage of the fact that Dean only had one hand on his pelvis to lift his hips invitingly. "I'm completely ready...if, again, you can stay on top."

That was a challenge Dean was only too willing to accept.

Entering Sam had them both crying out in pleasure, grabbing onto each other with all their strength and kissing with brutal passion as Dean felt him out. Impossibly hot, and tight, and silky and plush and...he could fill up a whole dictionary with descriptions of what Sam felt like inside, and all those words still wouldn't be enough to accurately describe it.

It was just - perfect. Like this was what he'd been waiting for, searching for, his entire freaking life. Every single other partner had just been practice, so that he'd be good enough for Sam when he finally had the balls to show him how he felt about him. How he had felt about him for a long, long time, because it'd never gone away. He'd just been doing his best to bury it for pretty much all his life. And probably left Sam silently hurt and confused for years in the process.

He was determined to make up for that now. Forehead pressed to Sam's, both arms around him, chest red and covered in bite marks and hickeys, he began to thrust into him. His hips rolled against Sam's, and they rocked back and forth on the rubber, building up a rhythm that soon had Dean slamming home with all the gentleness of a furious demon and Sam bucking right up to meet him.

All in all, making this rough, excited sort of love with Sam wasn't all that different from fighting. He had to work hard to keep Sam down, to keep pumping into him at exactly the right angle, and to plant burning kisses on his throat and chest. At one point, Sam surged up and got him onto his back, laughing breathlessly in victory as he rode him with powerful movements. That didn't last long. It took a lot of struggling, but Dean made his way back into his preferred position, grabbing a handful of his euphoric brother's hair and forcing his head down as he growled, "Stay _down, _Sammy. Can't fuck you right otherwise."

They ended up sitting up again, after awhile. Kissing. They'd slowed down a little from their previous bruising pace, so they could touch and actually enjoy it, and Sam was whispering whenever they broke for air. A constant stream of things that he must have been waiting years to say: how perfect Dean was, and how it physically hurt to even imagine life without him despite the fact that he'd faced it several times, and how he'd known since day one of this new training regimen that he'd finally won him over. How incredibly happy that'd made him.

Dean closed his eyes as Sam bounced smoothly on his lap, holding him close. With every movement, he could feel the head of his cock hitting a swollen, taut little bud that had to be his prostate. It made him huff out a tiny, excited, hopelessly-endearing breath each time.

"Love you." The words had taken this entire time for him to dredge up and force out, and his voice was ragged. It wasn't that he didn't mean them. He didn't think he'd ever meant anything more. It was just that, having been brought up as both a male and a warrior...he wasn't exactly in touch with his emotions, or comfortable talking about them. It was sorta a double whammy. "Love you so, so much. Need..." Sam whimpered. He actually whimpered, grabbing Dean's ass and pulling him hard into himself. He must be getting close. "...need you..." Maybe that would be a marker for him every time, the whimpering or the grabbing or both. Something that Dean could watch out for to know when he was about to come. "...wanted you. For such a long fucking time. Just barely figured that out, Sammy." He grabbed the nape of Sam's neck, crushed their mouths together, welcomed his eager tongue in. "Love you, need you, want you. Never gonna let you go."

Sam whimpered again, the sound breathless. Dean occupied him with another kiss, cradling him as he went up onto his knees, then took him back to the mat so that he was basically lying on top of him. And he kept thrusting, so that their pelvises locked together and Sam's back arched with pleasure.

"Dean..." He groaned. Dean smoothed a hand over his sweat-damp hair, and wrapped the other around his leaking cock. "D-Dean - I - "

"I know," Dean interrupted. And he was pretty sure that, whatever Sam had been going to say, he did know it.

He'd saved him some breath, too, because Sam hit his orgasm in the next minute. Every muscle in his body locked tight, and his fingernails raked down Dean's back. He felt his ankles hook over his calves. Sam cried out, head snapping back as his eyes closed, and got Dean's name out at least half a dozen times. Dean'd seen plenty of orgasms in his time, but never one of Sam's, and he was immediately convinced that it was the hottest thing he'd ever had the pleasure of coming across. The hot, thick come pumping and spreading between their bruised chests certainly didn't hurt, either. Sam was just beginning to wind down when Dean climaxed.

Maybe it wasn't exactly a simultaneous orgasm, but it was pretty damn close, and besides: Dean Winchester was a perfect gentleman about sex, and had never once come before his partner. This time was no exception. Sam had already finished by the time that Dean started shouting his name into the curve of his neck, squeezing his shoulders so hard his hands hurt, and completely filling him with his load.

He came down after awhile, panting and sweating, and found Sam's arms reassuringly around him. He planted his hands on the mat so that he could push himself up, and look at him. Sam looked completely blissed out, and he smiled slowly up at him.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean whispered. A soft kiss was planted on his chin.

"What?"

He grinned.

"I win."


End file.
